


Buy Me Brunch

by haintblue



Series: all realms of where and when beyond [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, BAMF!Stiles, College, College Student Stiles, F/F, F/M, M/M, Pack in College, Spuffy, Stiles is Magic, Werewolves, Willow Rosenberg - Freeform, even at 10 a.m., spike wears a lot of leather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:43:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2094414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haintblue/pseuds/haintblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>UC Sunnydale's dining hall on a Saturday morning probably contains more supernatural creatures than the entire magical population of Wyoming. That's certainly a statistic they hadn't advertised in the brochure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Liberties have been taken with the timeline and plot of BtVS. Mostly because I adore Spuffy. 
> 
> Liberties have also been taken with Teen Wolf, in which the main characters stay alive and are not randomly killed off in favor of other, less developed characters. And, you know, gay things happen. 
> 
> Not beta-read; please forgive any errors. Title comes from e.e. cummings' "2 little whos."

Stiles doesn’t fall asleep in savasana the next morning, but it’s a near thing. Eyes still closed, he takes a couple more deep breaths as the people around him spray mats and gather towels and blocks, their conversations low and pleasant. Yoga is a new thing—he’d gone during the first week of school with a guy from his freshman orientation class, and while he’d felt self-conscious about his inability to liquefy his bones or whatever the instructor was doing up at the front—turns out, yoga is more than stretching—it at least was a beginners class. The teacher spent a lot of time going over breathing techniques and proper form, recommending easier modifications to most of the poses and ending the class with a meditation that had eased Stiles’ nerves about the whole being-away-from-Beacon-Hills better than anything else he’d tried.

So he’d worked through some seriously ridiculous soreness and attended almost every morning for the next few months, which was why his body had woken him up at 9 a.m. despite the fact that he’d done some serious magical mojo until 4:30 a.m., a gentle jolt of adrenaline propelling him to blindly pull on a pair of soft, dark cotton pants and a weathered gray tee; throw his mat, student card, phone, and a water bottle into a Nike bag; and stumble downstairs and two buildings over to the rec center. He’d woken up fully about fifteen minutes into the class and is currently laying quietly on his mat, feeling calm and pleasantly spent. 

With a sign, he sits up, half-heartedly swipes at his mat with a towel, and rolls up it, nodding at the instructor as he gathers up his belongings and leaves the studio, headed to the student center. Between yoga and magical mojo, it is time to refuel. 

The Sunnydale student cafeteria isn’t anything to write home about, but it stocks the organic chai that he loves, and cereal tastes good pretty much anywhere. He’s never gotten stale cereal at USC— he’s pretty sure the plastic dispensers are refilled at least twice daily. College kids love their crunchy childhood memories. 

He finishes splashing 2% on his Cheerios and turns to survey the dining hall, calculating his odds of getting a table to himself at 10:15 a.m. on a Saturday (pretty good) when he spots a familiar face near the windows. 

It actually takes him a moment to figure out who it is because he’s so caught off guard, but his heart has no such trouble; it immediately starts pounding like he’s done 100 sun salutations in a row, and his fingers get a little sweaty. Well. More sweaty, anyway. 

Flushed with pleasure, he grips his tray and makes a beeline for the table, his mouth unable to form anything but a really dumb grin. 

Derek looks up from his phone when Stiles is still about twenty feet away, so they just smile stupidly at each other until Stiles clatters his breakfast paraphernalia down and Derek stands up and they embrace like they haven’t seen each other in months, but really it’s only been 27 days and a few hours. Not that Stiles is counting. 

“Hi, babe,” Stiles gasps, doing his best imitation of an octopus. “I didn’t know you were coming! This is the best surprise ever! Sorry, I’m like, super sweaty, we did sort of an advanced class this morning.” 

Derek smells like shampoo and detergent and that organic deodorant that he buys from Whole Foods, and he’s wearing a douchey black Crossfit t-shirt that says, “My warmup is your workout” in the same baby blue as his trainers and a pair of black Nike shorts. Stiles wants to have sex with him right now, but it’s been hard enough to get Derek to show him affection in public; he figures barebacking with an audience might be a little out of Derek’s comfort zone. 

“Hi,” Derek murmurs. He kisses Stiles briefly, then hugs him again. “I just got here and figured I’d meet up with you after yoga. I was hungry from the drive anyway. Is that all you’re gonna eat?”

Stiles savors the sensation of Derek’s voice rumbling against his body, then steps back a little so they can sit down. “This is definitely my first course. A wake-up, if you will,” he scoffs, taking the first sip of his chai. Heaven. “Have you eaten? Why did you pay money for this terrible cafeteria food? I am a man of some means, you know. I can take you out to the Doublemeat Palace.” 

“Tempting,” Derek says, “but let’s save dining out for lunch. Somewhere other than a gay club.”

“Man of many jokes,” Stiles says solemnly. “I worry about the collective libidos of your crossfit minions, I really do.”

Derek had taken the job as a crossfit instructor about a year ago in an effort to rejoin society as a productive member but still have time to deal with numerous supernatural crises. So far, it’d be great; he’d increased the membership of the local box about 50 percent, and he got to work out with the other wolves after hours, when no one would bat an eye at how much weight someone had on their squat bar. 

“Me?” Derek raises his eyebrows and takes a sip of his coffee. “Are you advertising a new side business?”

“What?” Stiles looks down and blushes. “Aww, I got dressed in the dark this morning. This is more of a lounge-around-the-house, have-sexy-times-with-my-boyfriend shirt.” Also, it smelled like Derek. So Stiles was a sentimental guy nine months into a relationship with a guy he’d loved since he was sixteen. So sue him. His shirt, which read, “Oh My God Becky,” had been a gift from Derek via the gym’s endless, smugly superior supply. 

“That’s definitely on the agenda,” Derek promises. “I was planning on coming later tonight, let you have time to get through that history paper you were talking about, but I got your text about that girl you met last night, and I wanted to come down and, I don’t know, sniff it out. I know, I know,” he adds at Stiles’ look. “I know that you’re a big mage and you can handle yourself. Trust me. I just… I don’t know, I had a feeling. Not a bad one. But I felt like I needed to be here.” His pale eyes fix on Stiles, imploring.

Stiles blows out a breath. Coming to UC Sunnydale hadn’t been an easy choice for him or the rest of the pack. Scott, Allison, Erica, and Boyd were busy soaking up the sunshine (and the smog) in LA, while Lydia had gone to Berkeley. But Stiles had wanted to go to Sunnydale for their magic program—not exactly something that they advised in the brochure, but Deaton knew the professor who taught demonology and lore courses, and he’d let Stiles know that the classes weren’t as much theoretical as they were extremely helpful in real life. Plus, the computer programming at UC Sunnydale was one of the best in the UC system, and Stiles was banking on a career that would allow him to work from home reasonably soon after school. Beacon Hills wasn’t exactly a thriving metropolis, and he wanted to able to work from there doing something he liked in case he wasn’t able to monetize the magic thing.

Part of the agreement had been that he keep his nose out of any supernatural trouble that wasn’t absolutely avoidable. Sunnydale was notorious for its position over the Hellmouth, trendsetting and rule-breaking Slayer, and magical instability. Stiles had argued the presence of the Slayer was a positive one and that learning about the magical instability would be limitlessly useful, especially since he could rely on the professor to help him not spark an apocalypse or grow horns or whatever. 

Derek had in turn voiced his concerns about Stiles going into an environment like that without his pack, with a dangerous Slayer who was only rumored to be friendly with some supernatural creatures, and moreso without his pack to back him up.

Stiles had gotten his way, predictably, but with the caveat that he try to have as normal of a semester as possible and keep a low profile on the Sunnydale supernatural scene outside of his magical studies. The wards he’d refreshed last night had been part of that, as well as a couple of new tattoos on his already decorated arms. He hadn’t even met another supernatural creature—well, outside of that poor wolf he’d liberated from those wacky ROTC guys when he’d encountered them trying to hustle a partially transformed omega covered in a blanket down a dorm hallway, what was wrong with people, seriously. 

Except last night, and that was totally not his fault.

“That was totally not my fault,” he insists. “I literally walked in on her doing magic. Pretty high-level magic, in fact. What if she had been trying to, I don’t know, turn everyone into monkeys? I hear gingers are really temperamental.” 

“Ignoring that incendiary statement that you don’t actually believe,” Derek says, “I promise, I trust you. As a person, first, and secondly, I don’t think that you’d have much trouble with an inexperienced magic user, even here. But I just…” His jaw works for a minute. “I just wanted to come early.”  
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Stiles mutters, earning a Sadwolf face in return. “Kidding, kidding.” Involuntarily, his goofy grin returns. “I’m really happy you drove five hours to come see me,” he says. “That is really sweet and also slightly worrisome, since that would indicate that you left almost exactly when I texted you and did not pause to sleep. I know that this whole situation is kinda crappy. You know what would make it better, though?”

Derek looks like he’s bracing himself for a sexual comment, so Stiles (regretfully) skates past the low-hanging fruit. “A big ole werewolf breakfast,” he says. “These Cheerios are soggy as hell anyway now. Stay there and save our table from the hordes of hungover students; I’ll go get some protein with a large side of fat.”

Stiles has never known Derek to turn down food, and at Derek’s hopeful smile, he turns around and heads back to the kitchen area, methodically loading down a tray with Belgian waffles, eggs, fruit, bacon, and sausage. He carefully balances plates and glasses, not taking his eyes off the food as he avoids chairs and people (thanks, yoga, for superior balancing skills, he thinks fervently). He presents his tray with a flourish back at the table.

“I have provided for you,” he announces smugly, to Derek’s amused look. “I have gathered the necessary fuel for at least one sex marathon and possibly even some exploring of the Sunnydale area.”

“You are a brave and fearless partner,” Derek says dryly, swiping a piece of bacon before Stiles can even unload the tray. “What are the odds that that bleached blond over there is a vampire?”

Stiles can switch into magic mode faster than a speeding bullet (or at least, a flying arrow; he’s unfortunately had real life experience with that); he’s casting out his extra senses before he’s fully seated. Mostly, he feels the low buzz of human (or mostly human; he guesses people whose supernatural abilities would normally be dormant have been shaken awake by living so close to the Hellmouth). A second later, he finds the curiously blank aura of a vampire. He opens his mouth to report as much when he feels something else so strange he almost bites his tongue and actually twists himself in his chair to suss out the source.

Across the room, which has filled up a bit since he first stumbled in, there’s a Billy Idol wannabe—presumably the guy Derek asked about—sitting across from a slender, tanned blonde woman whose messily twisted updo features a much more natural-looking color. They look odd together; the vampire guy has on a long black coat that was sort of fashionable when The Matrix was popular twenty years ago, heavy boots, and a red shirt that would look at home on Lestat. He grips a mug—nails painted black, a gold and green bauble on his left ring finger—and looks like he’s sarcastically toasting the woman, who rolls her eyes and stuffs scrambled eggs in her mouth. She’s in loose yoga pants (although Stiles did not actually see her in class this morning) and a cropped white top that is a little 90s, but hey, Stiles is the one wearing Sir-Mix-A-Lot lyrics.

“Dude,” Stiles says, awed. “I think that’s the Slayer.”

Derek’s nose twitches, and an odd look sets on his face. “She’s banging the vampire,” he says, voice low. “Oh my God, it’s like Allison and Scott.”

They watch as the vampire says something to the Slayer, who responds by viciously stomping on his foot. Even though she’s wearing flats and Stiles would bet money that the dude’s Doc Marten’s are steel-toed, the vamp still winces. 

“Nah,” Stiles says slowly. “I think they’re more like us.”

“Jesus Christ,” Derek sighs. “Well, it looks like I won’t have to worry about fighting the Chosen One while I’m in town.” His tone is light, but his shoulders relax visibly, and he yanks something off his neck quickly, pocketing it. Stiles feels a rush of love so overwhelming, he has to sit and take a couple of deep breaths. 

Having researched the Slayer and the Hellmouth before embarking on his college education in Sunnydale, Stiles had (painstakingly) made Derek a magical pendant to mask his otherness so he could safely come visit Stiles in college without alerting every supernatural creature in town that a powerful alpha werewolf was visiting. Derek hated it with a passion since it muted his abilities as well and refused to wear it. They still fought about it occasionally, but Derek had only visited the once to help him move in, so it had become a moot point until today. 

“Thank God,” Stiles says. His professor had been really adamant about the ask-lots-of-questions-first nature of the Slayer, but he’d also talked up her strength. Stiles had come away with the impression that it would take both of them to bring her down. “Also, I really, really love you.”

Derek looks a little startled at the change of subject, but his eyes crinkle at Stiles. “I love you, too,” he says quietly. “How do you feel about eating later?”

“So, so good,” Stiles says quickly. Derek laughs and starts to gather his phone and keys. 

“Stiles!” someone shouts from across the dining hall. It’s not loud, but Stiles registers that the Slayer and the vampire look up immediately as well. Derek cocks his head as Stiles looks around, trying to figure out why the voice sounds so familiar.

Willow beams back at him from beside the salad bar, her red hair in tangled curls around her head. She walks hesitantly up to him, her stride becoming more confident when Stiles smiles back at her. “Hey!” she chirps, grinning at Stiles and Derek. “Just wanted to say good morning! And thanks about last night! I mean,” she flounders, blushing a little at Derek, “um, about, the uh, studying, last night. I… really needed help, in, um, astronomy.”

Always sympathetic to those who also experienced word vomit, Stiles says, “Hey, anytime. It was super nice to meet you, too! I’d love to hang out with you again. This is my boyfriend, Derek,” he adds, and Willow smiles, nodding her head at him. 

“Hey, Derek, nice to meet you!” she says. “Do you go here, too?”

“I actually have a degree from NYU,” Derek says politely. “But I decided that I missed this jerk too much to wait for him to come home during Thanksgiving, so I drove up this morning to come see him.”

Sometimes it irritates Stiles that Derek has probably brushed off more potential friendships than most people have had a shot at in their entire lives, but as much as he’s looking forward to hanging out with Willow, he would really like to go bask in glory of seeing his man in the flesh in private.

“Oh, awesome!” Willow says, already angling her body away. “I’m sure you guys want some time together, then. It was so nice to meet both of you, and Stiles, I hope that we’ll see you around! That’s my friend Buffy,” she adds, pointing toward the Slayer, “and her, uh, friend. Spi– William. You’re welcome to hang out with us any time.” With a final smile, she departs.

Stiles and Derek watch her glide across the dining hall and plunk down next to the Slayer, who apparently has an even more unfortunate name than Stiles, and stick her tongue out at William the vampire.

“The college brochure did promise diversity,” Stiles says into the silence. 

“I think we need to go interview the vampire,” Derek deadpans. 

Stiles lobs a French toast stick at him. “We’re never going to eat breakfast or have sex, are we,” he says. 

Derek looks down at their plates, considering, and jams almost an entire waffle into his mouth. 

“You’re lucky that you’re pretty,” Stiles says as Derek chews, then aggressively chomps on a boiled egg before his yoga-induced calorie deficit causes him to actually stop functioning. The sooner they ascertain that the legendary, powerful creatures slapfighting mere feet away are in fact as childish as they appear, the sooner they can get down to the actual fun part of the visit, which involves many fewer people and zero clothing. 

Despite mounting evidence to the contrary, Stiles crosses his fingers that Buffy and William are soulmates a la Allison and Scott and are too besotted with each other to think of causing any harm to him or his. 

He should know better than to wish for anything on a Hellmouth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Stile experiences word vomit upon meeting part of the Scooby gang, Buffy sizes up potential threats, and Derek reminds Spike way too much of another hulking broody poof.

Over the past few years, Spike has endured gruesome torture, fought through body-ravaging demon trials, and suffered quite a bit of humiliation and unnecessary snide comments from the entire Scooby gang for Buffy. He’d do it again without hesitation. In his long life, she’s the only person who’s ever made him feel like he was standing in the sun: warm, content, and always a little in awe. 

So he doesn’t think it’s too much to ask for her to share her bloody waffles. The woman’s got a stack of Belgians piled four-deep on a plate, not mention a bowl of eggs and bacon, and she still won’t give him a single bite of crunchy carby goodness.

“Waffles are for men who call me when I ask them to,” she snarls viciously, punctuating this with a stomp on his foot when he presumes to ask for a portion. The Slayer gig gives her thighs that could burst a man’s head open; he manfully resists the prick of tears. “I don’t let just anyone watch Dawn, Spike, and I really don’t appreciate you—”

“Wha,” he interrupts, “I did! Bloody well texted you before Dawnie and I watched the last bit of Passions. Roundabout midnight. Said Niblet and I were tucked in for the night, had nary a demonic Girl Scout come ’round sellin’ blood biscuits.”

Buffy frowns and reaches over to root in her impractically large tote. (Spike is reasonably certain you could fit a whole human in there, if you hacked them into enough pieces.) Although she is a woman of many talents—being able to match him blow-for-blow in a fight and then ride him until he screams being two of his favorites—technology and Buffy are, to use her words, unmixy things. She was probably waiting for the dorm-issued corded phone to ring despite the fact that Spike has never been able to remember to save that number.

“Shit,” she says, finally unearthing her phone and staring at it. “I have six missed calls. And, like, fourteen text messages.”

While she scrolls through what Spike assumes is a multi-platform plea for communication from each one of her terribly codependent Scooby gang members, Spike snags the top waffle and stuffs half in his mouth. “When’s the last time you checked it?” he garbles. God, he loves human food, even this university rot. 

She gives him her patented “Gonna dust you” look, which he sees at least five times a day now, but doesn’t slap his hand away when he takes another waffle, grinning. 

“I don’t know,” she mutters, tapping the screen. “Willow was being weird. I wanted to keep an eye on her.”

Spike immediately perks up. “And did the witch come back ravaged?” he inquires. Although he may not necessarily look it, Spike is a perceptive guy, and he’s 110% sure that Willow is interested in raiding Tara’s cookie stash. Buffy is of the opinion that Willow is far too broken up about Oz to even consider switching teams. They have a $50 bet on whether the two witches will hook up before term’s end, and the only reason that it isn’t higher is that Spike doesn’t have the heart to rob his woman of that much money. 

Buffy sighs and shakes her head, throwing her phone back into the tote. She picks up her coffee mug and glances to the front of the dining hall as she sips. She looks as tired as a magically enhanced Slayer can, which is to say, her skin is flawless even sans makeup, but she’s got worry lines on her brow that Spike could drive his DeSoto though. The hair loosely piled on top of her head is dirty, and he’d ripped one of the spaghetti straps off her cropped top a couple of days ago, and she hasn’t even noticed. The fingers on her left hand tap in sharp staccato against the table, and Spike suppresses an urge to swathe her in bubblewrap and take her on a three-week vacation to the Bahamas. 

It’s a strong urge. He glances around the dining hall to take his mind off it. It’s past 10 a.m. on a Saturday, so all the kiddies are still sleeping off their tequila and Tootsie Rolls or whatever coeds are getting drunk on these days. He, stone-cold sober babysitter of a vocal teenager who insists loudly and often that she doesn’t need no man, especially not a vampire creature-in-law to supervise her, had fallen asleep on the couch perpendicular to the niblet’s around 1 a.m. and was, in fact, on his second breakfast. He’d managed a decent round of eggs in a basket for Dawn before she trotted off to Janice’s (he knows this is where she actually went because he followed her and then hung around in the bushes for twenty minutes making sure that “Janice” didn’t turn into “rendezvous with Jason Numbnuts”). 

Buffy heaves a sigh and then attacks her eggs. Slayers, Spike has learned, are always fighting a calorie deficit. Tentatively, he reaches out for her other hand and strokes it lightly with the tips of his fingers. Buffy is wild, strong, and brittle in secret places; you can cut yourself on the pieces if you’re not careful. 

Buffy allows their fingers to thread together today, and she squeezes him lightly. “Thank you for watching Dawn,” she says after swallowing her eggs. “I’m sorry. Demons I can handle, but college is new and overwhelming territory. I don’t mean to be such a grump.”

Spike knows that college and Buffy are also unmixy things, but he also knows about tactical silence and timing. “Being around Dawn’s no chore,” he says lightly. “She still thinks I’m cool.” He waggles her eyebrows at her, and finally, she laughs. 

“You don’t even—” she starts, when they both hear Willow sing out something that sounds like, “Giles!” Both Slayer and vampire turn to track this unusual turn of events—Giles typically avoids the campus on weeks—and see Willow make a beeline for a table with two of the most objectively attractive men Spike has ever seen. One reminds him sharply of Peaches. 

He’s about to make an ill-advised comment about his sire when he cocks his head, getting a whiff of otherness about both men. “Reckon Red needs backup?”

But Willow is already headed toward their table, a spring in her step. She grins at Buffy and chirps, “Good morning!” She levels a slightly cooler look at Spike as she sits down, but he doesn’t take it personally. It’s one thing for Buffy to decide that the vampire who’d tried to kill her had thoroughly reversed his stance; it’s quite another for her best friend to do the same. He’s a bloody charming fellow, though, so he’s not worried. If there’s one thing Spike has, it’s time.

“Hey Will,” Buffy says, her voice gravel. She clears her throat and achieves most of a smile. “Who are your new buddies over there?”

“That’s Stiles!” Willow says happily, spearing a piece of fruit on her fork. “That’s the—” she drops her voice— “witch I ran into last night. He says that the other guy is his boyfriend.”

“Is he now,” Spike says dryly. “I think he probably ate someone’s boyfriend for breakfast. Maybe several someones.” 

“He is a big dude,” Willow agrees. “He feels… different. I think,” she squirms, “I think he’s a werewolf, maybe. I didn’t understand all of the runes that Stiles was drawing last night, but I saw a couple of references to wolves, and Derek definitely feels non-humany.” 

“I’ll just bet he does,” Spike murmurs, and Buffy slaps him upside the head. He snorts and does his best to pretend that it hadn’t hurt. Good thing Buffy doesn’t have a thing for human blokes; she’d probably try to give one a love tap and crush in half his skull. 

“What do we think, threat-wise?” Buffy asks in her Slayer-voice, the one that Spike estimates is 95 percent resigned business and 5 percent bloodthirst. She seems to have abandoned the idea of breakfast in favor of gulping coffee like a lifeline, so Spike appropriates the bowl that has bacon in it and tries to look interested in the conversation. 

Willow shrugs. “I think they’re good,” she says. “Stiles is a sweet guy, and Derek said that he’d done his undergrad at NYU, so at least if he’s a bloodthirsty killing machine, it’s more like a hobby than the sole purpose of his existence.”

“Good,” Buffy says. “Also, they’re coming over here.”

They are indeed, with Stiles leading the way and Derek following him with a predatory grace that has Spike’s senses go on alert. The dude looks like he throws trees around for fun, and he’s seen more than one vampire fall to a werewolf. Nasty fighters, the lunar-challenged. He has a feeling this guy is no lowly omega or beta, either.

“Being a killing machine is neither a primary occupation nor a weekend warrior pursuit of Derek’s,” the kid named Stiles says brightly as he drops into the empty chair next to Spike and Derek swiftly snatches one from another table, planting himself on the end between Willow and Stiles and glaring at Buffy and Spike. “Sorry! I’m Stiles, and also a lip reader.” He smiles at them, and Spike suddenly realizes that he had his money on the wrong horse. He’s not sure what anyone else sees, but for him, the air around Stiles’ body fairly shimmer with magic. Derek might be able to throw them all around, but Stiles could drop at least one of them without moving a muscle.

Buffy, meanwhile, is staring down Derek like they’re both cowboys at the OK Corral. Bless her, but sometimes she’s brawn over brain. 

“Hi, Stiles, Derek. I’m Buffy. Willow says you met last night and did some pretty big magic,” Buffy says evenly. 

“Slayer, right?” Stiles says with a grin. “I’ve heard a lot about you, although I’m sure that you get that like, all the time. We should reminisce about how hard our childhoods were with extremely odd names sometime, although I’m getting the vibe that maybe you just punched the lights out of the schoolyard bully and then made him eat his homework. Anyway! I just wanted to come over here and introduce myself and Derek and make sure that we’re all, like, kosher. I’ve been trying to keep myself out of the supernatural scene in Sunnydale since that is 100 percent your gig, but after those dudes came scooping out everyone’s hearts earlier this year, I figured, better warded than deaded.”

“It’s always nice to meet people who aren’t trying to kill us,” Buffy says. Blunt as always, Spike thinks fondly. “Derek, are you local?”

“No,” Derek says. The silence lasts a beat too long.

“My man and I are from Beacon Hills,” Stiles says quickly, “and we’ve contacted the local pack to let them know that I’m going to school here and Derek will be visiting occasionally. We were told that the Slayer followed the hunter code, but didn’t want to like, wave our existence in your face. Plus, you’re sort of a celebrity, and I mean, once I saw Tom Hanks in a coffee shop and I almost exploded with some seriously unexpected star-struckedness but then I thought, man, he’s just trying to buy some overpriced coffee, not get a hand cramp from signing autographs, you know? I figured you were good,” he concludes. “Plus, uh, Derek sort of intuited that maybe you and William here were, uh, pretty good friends, so we figured that a vampire slayer who’s dating a vampire is probably super progressive and open-minded. Votes Democratic, recycles, doesn’t judge ladies for wearing leggings as pants as long as they’re not too see-through.”

Willow casts a worried look at Buffy. “I mean, how opaque are we talking about with the leggings, because Buffy was saying yesterday—”

“Glad to meet you guys,” Buffy cuts in firmly. “I’m definitely not a celebrity in any form or fashion, but, Stiles, I’m glad that you met Willow. She says that you’re going to help her out with some magic how-to, and we can always use any help we can get. And as far as, uh, William is concerned—”

“The name’s Spike, blokes,” Spike asserts. He thinks about following it up with some sort of threat, but that Derek chap is growling very quietly every time Spike shifts and accidentally ends up a millimeter closer to his man. And people say he’s unhinged and territorial, jeez. “Glad we’ve established that none of us wants to be drinking any blood this morning. Figuratively. Since I’ve already had mine.” He leers at Buffy.

“Can you not behave for five minutes,” she hisses. Stiles’ lip twitches and he shoots Derek, werewolf of few words, a look so besotted that Spike suprasses an urge to vomit. God, if that’s ever how he looks around Buffy, he hopes Peaches will materialize out of the shadows and dust him right on the spot to preserve his dignity. 

“Stiles, would you like to meet Giles, our, uh, well, Buffy’s Watcher?” Willow asks, shooting Spike an unfriendly look. “Later, I mean, after you and Derek, um, after you guys have gotten a chance to see each other. I know long-distance must suck.”

“So much,” Stiles says earnestly. “I’d love to meet Giles someday. It’ll be really nice to have someone else magically inclined here. It’s been kinda weird being surrounded by garden variety humans here. Nice!” he amends quickly, darting a look at Derek. “I mean, I’ve been super busy with school and adjusting and all that, so—”

“Let’s go meet Giles,” Derek interrupts, standing. “I have some questions for him.” He looks at the rest of the table expectantly.

Oh yeah, definitely an alpha, Spike thinks with a smirk. Buffy immediately rises to her feet also, leaving Stiles and Willow to scramble up and exchange slightly embarrassed glances. 

“Oi, I’m not done with breakfast,” Spike protests, mostly to be a dick. 

“You don’t need to eat people food, Spike,” Buffy says in a world-weary tone.

“Not the point,” Spike says indignantly, then sighs. “Fine, fine. I’ve got some blood in the fridge at The Magic Shop. You better buy me brunch later, Slayer.”

He squeezes her ass for good measure as they head out of the dining hall. It's a testament to how far they've come that her answering blow isn't even hard enough to bruise, and she lets his arm encircle her waist as they start the walk to the Magic Shop.

Spike loves Buffy down to his brittle bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the extreme liberties being taken with the Scooby timeline, particularly in regard to where Spike is personally. That was for the Spuffy and no apologies will be made for that.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Both shirts mentioned in this fic are real. You can buy the Oh My God Becky tank for thirty American dollars at Buy Me Brunch. It is probably my favorite shirt to wear in the whole world.
> 
> Spike's green and gold ring is the Gem of Amara, which allows him to walk around in the sun. The ring is canon; Spike wearing it for more than five minutes is not.


End file.
